


Autumn Ghosts

by beautifulwhensarcastic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, forms of grieving, ptsd mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:25:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4881943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifulwhensarcastic/pseuds/beautifulwhensarcastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been over three years. Though trying to mourn and move on, Peggy isn't able to fully let go of Steve. There's a place, where she finds a piece of him and another person, who has loved him as much as she does. This time, when Peggy is at Sarah Rogers' grave, someone unexpected appears...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumn Ghosts

The air bears flecks of frost, the cold needles prickling at the skin, engulfing each breath with a foggy puff. There's something in that weather and in the smell of the air, which she loves with an unknown longing. It's not exactly the home sickness, though the smoky scent combined with the frosty chill remind her of England. What she is scared to admit, is a thought that’s been somehow pushed really deep down, that it reminds her of another place and time. And while she doesn't miss the horrors they've faced over three years ago, there's an undoubted yearning.

Sometimes, when that little void in her heart awakens with a painful clench, Peggy slips into one of the pubs, to get a shot of whisky and for a few minutes soak up the scent and laughter, so close to the ones she used to smell and hear when sitting by the bonfire in a drenched, wool jacket, holding a tin cup of an awful, watery tea, listening to Dum Dum's stories.  

Nowadays, she tries to push those memories far away, convincing herself that rotting in the unchangeable past doesn't serve any good purpose, only slows her down on her daily fight. Though her  _colleagues_  from SSR tend to snort at her, judging her motivation as purely romance-driven, making her seem as if she tries to live up to the status of Captain America's sweetheart, the thought of Steve is only one of the true aspects behind her actions.

He didn't die for it to all go to hell, for Hydra to resurface, or the other organizations to have claims on humanity. Most of all, Peggy is not one to sit down politely and type nonsense between making coffee for the men, when there's so much to do.

It's not that someone has to do it. She  _wants_  to do it.

To bloody hell with the idiots at SSR, whose fedoras barely contain their swollen egos. She has faced dangers, endured immense pain, and she's not about to stop now.

But she does.

For a few days, at least. Weeks, months even, of constant charging and pushing forward, breaking and entering, coming out with a small success and vast wounds, can drain her, even if Howard says she has a natural superhero serum inside of her. Once in a while, Peggy just has to take a break, though she usually postpones it as much as possible, because there's always something more important than her own well being. After almost getting blown up a week ago, she decided, this time she can let Thompson finish it, or clean his mess after a week of most deserved R&R.

A few days, which quickly made her realize, she's unable to really rest. There's always some thought coming back to haunt her. Thankfully, Angie's efforts help Peggy fight her own stubbornness. Daily lunches, tickets to the theatre - accompanied by voices of reason, that there's a slim chance for the massacre from more than year ago to repeat itself.

One thing, which Peggy has been avoiding for the past week, is the phone. Specifically, phone calls from Howard. Considering she could never be sure who is calling, she chose not to pick up at all.

It's been good, getting Howard back, even if at times he annoys her beyond reason. Having lost contact with so many of comrades, so many friends, to have Stark back is a great happiness. So much so that she agreed to celebrate with him, coming to a fancy party, having more than a few drinks and staying the night. In a bedroom far away from Howard's.

There's a different reason, for which Peggy avoids him recently. One, talking of which evokes a choking pain.

Before that thought fully resurfaces, eliciting stinging tears in her eyes, Peggy stows it. She brushes her cheek, although not a single tear has rolled down, then straightens her back and steps through the iron gate of the cemetery.

The smoky scent seems to intensify here, probably because of a few candles lit on some of the graves. She rarely ignites her own, only twice a year, on All Hallows and Christmas Eve.

Peggy keeps this place away from everyone, not even Jarvis and Angie know about her surprisingly regular visits here. That peaceful, quiet spot beneath the arch of heavy willows on the far end of the cemetery, where she had found herself for the first time half a year after the V-Day, has become her anchor to the part that she's afraid to lose at some point.

Back then, when she came here for the first time, it was supposed to have been a one time visit. Somehow, Peggy couldn't leave  _her_  like that.

Nodding curtly to the elderly lady, who's brushing wet leaves off the tombstone, Peggy walks the path leading to the narrow alley of graves. Her destination is a little further away, where nobody comes anymore, or very rarely, beneath the weave of willow branches.

In the late spring breeze, the green curtain is so soft against Peggy's skin, when she purposely walks through the willowy veil, for a splint of a second reminded of a delicate touch on her cheek.

The ceasing autumn, frostily turning into winter, dispersed all of the lovely green waves, spreading the first thin line of white flecks atop the golden leaves, crunching underneath her boots.

Her fingers tighten around the small bouquet of lilies, when she rounds the slightly crooked tombstone to stand in front of it.

As always, she freezes in place, eyes locked on the time-weathered sign, heart clenching in her chest. "Hello," a soft whisper leaves Peggy's red lips.

Slowly, she bends down, sweeping some of the brown leaves away with her trembling, cold hands. As she reaches a little further, a pang of pain shots through her, making her wince and curl up. The blotches of blue and yellow, which she knows are blooming on her whole left side, where her body connected with the road when she was dragged behind the car for a few meters a week ago. To avoid more unnecessary pain, she changes her position, crouching down now, making careful moves.

There's a familiar surge of sadness creeping under her skin, as she traces her quivering fingers over the letters on the stone.

_Sarah Rogers_

All the gritty shards of regret and longing form into one, heavy stone, settling on Peggy's chest. Reminding her how much she misses Steve. How many things she had lost the moment the plane crashed into the icy water. Not only the chance for a dance, but everything that being his friend, or more than friend, could bring once the war was over.

Trying to fight the growing pressure on her heart, Peggy makes a mental note to restore Sarah's tombstone as soon as she saves up enough money.

She places the bouquet on the ground, replacing the withered one she left a few weeks ago. Delicate petals shake in the soft wisp of wind, brushing along the shimmering brim of the small, golden object placed by the mossy stone.

Peggy averts her gaze from it, as she moves to sit on a small bench, which she put here by herself. She slips her hands into the pockets of the chocolate-coloured wool coat, clenching them into fists in hope of regaining some warmth.

The overwhelming silence here is always uneasy at first. Used to the daily noise, to the sounds of the pulsing city life seeping through the ajar windows of her bedroom, she tenses in the heavy silence of the cemetery. It's not the dreadful atmosphere of it, that sends a chill down her spine, but the easiness with which the memories sneak up on her. The echo of an interrupted sentence and the static silence following it, pierce through her.

Instantly, she clenches her fists tighter, red nails needling soft skin, eyes misting, as Peggy casts a glance at the small trinket on the ground.

She never got to bury him.

No body meant no actual grave and while the lack of it sustains an unhealthy hope, to which she subconsciously holds on, it also brings pain, for she has no place to feel his presence at.

The government has built some monuments, where people pay their respects, leave dozens of flowers and cheerfully celebrate the 4th of July, but it's not to her liking. She cringes at the thought of Steve's discomfort, if he ever found out about it. He'd politely thank for the memory, but it would veil the deeply held disappointment and regret, for there are too many abandoned, forgotten graves of soldiers, who gave their lives for the cause. And some have no grave at all...

For a moment, Peggy glances over her shoulder, at the old, haunched willow. There's a brass plate on it, which she has organized with the help of the rest of the Howling Commandos.

_In memory of Sergeant James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes_

There's a small headstone for his empty grave in Arlington, but she insisted on placing something here, too. Steve would want it that way, so James could be with his family. And with his best friend.

Avoiding Howard comes exactly to that reason - to Steve's grave.

While she hopes his search for the Valkyrie and the Captain's body ends successfully, she also dreads it. The body would shatter all delusional hope, forcing her to cope with the loss anew. What's worse, they would never bury him with peace, even if she would fight for it with all her might. For the politicians, the heads of military too, he was never Steve Rogers, they stripped him off personality and privacy, leaving an American property, a thing they display to the public. His mausoleum, for Peggy has no doubt they'd build something of that sort, would be treated like a place for tourists' pilgrimages.

While she understands people's need to pay their respects and thank him in their own way, she knows Steve would prefer being treated like any other soldier. And to have peace.

Selfishly maybe, but she would prefer to have him in a place she could visit in privacy, without having to hide her tears, or words.

For now, there's no place of that kind at all, so she left that locket at the foot of his mother's tombstone, in this small, meaningless gesture reuniting Steve with his mom.

In Peggy's bedroom, in the middle drawer of her dresser, there's a notebook with a leather cover. Its contents are a bit crumpled, a little faded, some of them unfinished. It had been Steve's sketchbook, which she had stolen from the box with his belongings, that was set to be sealed and left to gather dust in the archives. Within his drawings, she'd found various sketches of herself and only one other woman.

The woman's resemblance to Steve was so astonishing, Peggy quickly understood it had to be his mother, Sarah.

The same eye-shape, structure of cheeks, thin, delicate lips...

Peggy closes her eyes and swallows hard, when a flash of a memory prints itself not only in her head, but also with a ghost of a tingling sensation on her lips.

She opens them again, hearing a soft rustling a few meters behind her, somewhere near the willow. Someone's footsteps, crushing the leaves on the ground, stop for a long moment, then slowly resume their path towards her. Instinctively, she tenses, though at the same tries to reason with herself that someone can be simply visiting the graves here. It happens rarely, to see someone in this part of the cemetery, but it does happen.

However, the silhouette-shaped shadow, so faint in the falling dusk, spreads right across the bench and the ground before Peggy, the person clearly stopping right behind her.

Watchful eyes observe the tiniest movement, waiting for any hint of oncoming threat. The silence stretches, seemingly thickening the air, increasing Peggy's alertness. She's about to peek over her shoulder and snap at whoever stands there, but the low, cracked voice she hears, freezes her in place.

"Peggy?"

The surprise in his tone is clear, edging on a choked cry, but it's nothing compared to the shock, piercing through her own body, when she recognizes that voice.

Or at least her mind is tricked into thinking it's  _him_ , for there's no possibility of it being real. Right?

In an instant, she's up and around, facing the impostor, ready to lunge at him, if not because of a threat, then for disrespect.

The tension in her body only increases, but any movement stops, when she comes face to face with him. A ghost out of her dreams, whose presence, a curved shard of the despair tugging on her sanity, voids her of any control over her body. The resemblance isn't just strong, he's exactly the same. Not even thinner, or older. His blue eyes reflect the same lost, overwhelmed emotion, like when she had shot at him.

It really is  _him_.

Steve.

He's astonished, his pupils wide, lips parted. Not one feature on his face has changed, despite the time that has passed since she saw him last. Only his outfit is different. The Captain's armour replaced by a suit and long, graphite coloured coat, its collar put high to shield his face from the cold, maybe also from any prying eyes. Long, nimble fingers, which she remembers stained with coal or dirt, now clean, clutch at a fedora nervously.

In that moment, even though he has now at least ten inches on her, Peggy sees that skinny, tiny boy, who anxiously gripped his side cap.

The tips of her fingers tingle, yet she's unable to lift her hand, nor force her body to move - whether to fly at him, or run away. A lump forms in her throat, words tangling, choking her. She can't even open her mouth to say his name.

Her motionlessness upsurges his nervousness. The look on Peggy's face is not the one he had imagined after waking up. It flashes fear, not happiness.

"I-" Steve tightens his grip on the hat, shuffling in place, but never taking his eyes off her, "I, um... Howard tried to reach you. He, uh, found me over a week ago and three days later I just woke up. At least that's what he's told me. We tried to call you, but you weren't..." he swallows hard, a tint of blush creeping on his cheeks. He skips the part, about his adamant demands to see Peggy, accusing Howard of hiding something from him, when they couldn't contact her.

"Mr Jarvis explained you took some days off, but we-" he stops and shakes his head, " _I_. I wanted to see you. Even went to that place, where you live. The Griffith. Your landlady, she, umm," the sheepish look on his reddened face amuses Peggy and the corners of her mouth quiver in a faint smile. Ms Fry must've scared that poor snowflake. "Anyway," Steve takes a breath, "So I decided to come here. Didn't expect to find  _you_  here."

At that, Peggy shifts awkwardly, gaze dropping down for a moment. How does she explain it to him? That she came visit his mother's grave as a... she couldn't understand it herself.

Like she can't comprehend the situation, in which she suddenly has found herself in.

Mere minutes ago she was internally crying for having no place, where she could feel Steve's presence, now he's standing two meters from her, only an iron bench separating them.

She opens her mouth, but for a long moment nothing comes out, only clouds of shaky breath. She can't fully control her voice, the cracking in it matching the sudden fracture in her composure, spilling warm wetness down her cheeks, as she murmurs, "Steve."

The sheer sound of his name on her lips moves him, a rapid reaction sending him towards her in one long stride. As suddenly as he moved, he stops, half a step away from her.

Fingers itch to touch her, wipe the wetness from her cheeks and press into the fabric of her coat, while holding her tight. Instead, he crumples the brim of fedora in his hands.

"Do you...?" Steve stammers, eyes searching her face for any indication his instinctive action is welcome. He'd always preferred asking Peggy first, never assuming, but then he feels so silly, considering asking if she wanted him to hug her.

He doesn't form it into a full question, when she hastily murmurs, "Yes," and makes a step, more like a half-jump, directly into his arms.

Peggy's hands clutch on the front of his coat, then slide under his arms and around his back. He can feel wetness, where she buries her face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him for dear life. The fedora falls from his hands, a negligible item standing in his way of holding her properly. Steve's arms shake, partly with the emotion that fills him whole, partly for the restrained strength with which he wants to hug her, but is afraid to crush her.

Then, suddenly, she chokes out another sob, that vibrates on the exposed skin of his neck and the force of the reality hits them both.

The last time they held back, they'd lost it all. With the unexpected second chance, there can't be no hesitance and tiptoeing. He sighs, a heavy breath of relief, leaning into her, curling around her smaller frame as if she's the one stronger. And it doesn't matter, if someone sees them, or if it's inappropriate, considering the holy ground they stand on.

Neither wants to pull back, Steve tightens his arms around her, when Peggy shifts after long minutes. With an unmasked discontent, he finally pulls back, keeping his hands on her waist.

Peggy's gaze shifts from his chest to his face, his cheeks now equally red and wet as her own.

"Oh, darling," she whispers, reaching her hand to cup his cheek. Trembling fingers, so cold against his warm skin, caress him tenderly, wiping away the trace of salty drops.

Her heart almost breaks for him, when he closes his eyes and leans into her touch, so vulnerable. She mourned him for three years, had to live with the thought of never seeing him again, but he's the one who  _died_. Who, in a split second, when the water engulfed the Valkyrie, realized he's losing everyone and everything.

And here they are now. Both changed, angry and broken in their own way. And both undoubtedly wanting to desperately hold on to that moment, before it slips from their fingers like a fading dream.

"You're at ma's grave," Steve says hoarsely, opening his eyes. He blinks a few times, as if slowly regaining his grip on reality. When Peggy blushes, gaze dropping down, he leans and kisses her forehead, murmuring a barely audible, "Thank you."

"Can we sit down for a moment?" she licks her lips, trying to keep her voice from shaking, as well other parts of her body. Weak at her knees, she's afraid,  that for the first time she's going to faint not from a wound or exhaustion, but from emotion.

Steve nods, but doesn't make a move. After a moment she realizes his gaze is shifting between his hand on her waist and the hat on the ground, which he should pick up, but apparently doesn't want to stop touching her even for a second. Pressing her lips together, refraining from laughing at his silly distress, Peggy only nudges him lightly. Finally, Steve bends down, one hand still at the small of her back, while the other lifts the fedora.

To be honest, he doesn't like that hat at all, but Howard was persistent on his choice of wardrobe for him. Feeling lost in the new reality, Steve quickly gave in, now regretting he didn't stomp his foot on that ridiculous hat.

The bench is small, Steve could easily fill the whole space himself, yet he coils at the edge of it, so she can take a comfortable place beside him.

The moment they settle, his gaze lands on the mossy stone. The letters are weathered, but he knows them by heart. His grip on the hat tightens once again, until a sudden jolt surges through his body, when a small, delicate hand rests atop his, firmly squeezing. His eyes shift to where Peggy's fingers curl around his hand - red fingernails, no rings, smudges of dirt.

"Your hands are cold," Steve frowns, quickly putting the hat on his head, so he can clasp both of his palms around hers.

"I lost my gloves," she shrugs and scoots a little closer, soaking up the warmth radiating from his body. Peering at his big hands covering hers so easily, calloused fingers rubbing on her skin, she decides, "Actually, I am rather happy with that loss at the moment."

Pink blooming on Steve's cheek, spreading a little further down his neck, makes her smile. Falling back into memories from a few years ago is so easy, but for the first time it doesn't bring dull ache. It is, however, the first time their hands are entwined so unabashedly, not a stolen touch veiled as accidental, when their fingers brushed while skimming over the maps. Or the needy touches of sweaty hands secluded in the night, when the camp was soundly asleep.

"It's weird," his fingers stop the gentle caress on her hand for a moment, before resuming, "Over a week ago I crashed the plane. Well, for me it's only a week or so, while... Three years, right?"

"Yes," Peggy nods, her tone soft as she inverts his line of logic, "Over three years. And here you are, looking exactly like on the day I last saw you. Minus the suit."

She reaches her free hand to press on his cheek, until he looks directly at her. "It is peculiar, yes. But if you're about to drown yourself in doubts over your place in here, in  _now_ , then you better think twice, Captain.  _I_  have mourned you for three years. Do you really think I would prefer it staying that way?"

"I guess not," he sighs. Peggy's words, however filling his heart with a hopeful waft, aren't able to erase the discomfort he feels. The uncertainty, that swings too many thoughts and questions in his head, to which he's afraid finding answers.

He didn't dare to ask Howard about Peggy's personal life, nothing beyond asking if she's safe and healthy, then asking for her address. But he couldn't help the peek at her fingers, when he clasped them between his hands, dreading the glint of a ring. Despite the lack of one, he restrains himself from hoping. It feels like pushing his luck. Surviving the crash, waking up unharmed, finding the war has ended, there has to be a point where his luck ends and he fears that Peggy Carter is that point. The one he will have to give up.

"You guess right," she snaps a bit too sharply, than intended, but it seems the cold waters haven't decreased this boy's stubbornness.

The silence falls, making Steve tense in anticipation of Peggy's withdrawal. But she stays in place, still leaning into his side, hand securely between his. He lets out another small breath of relief. Unsteadily, he lifts her hand in his, bringing it to his lips. For a second he expects Peggy to jerk away, but as he brushes his lips against the slowly warming up skin, she lets out a tiny gasp.

The dusk settles heavily, covering everything in semi-darkness, only a few candles around the cemetery flicker faintly. In the sky, grey clouds mix with pinkish ones, a sure sign of the upcoming snow.

Steve's eyes fall on the white petals of the lilies lying on the ground, his pupils slightly widening as he notices the shimmer of gold behind them.

His own face, the one which only a few have known, stares right back at him from the locket. His skinny past, smudged with dirt, kept as something precious, worth remembering. And he can't decide which is more shocking - the fact that Peggy had a locket with his picture, or the choice of the photography. Steve had hated himself back then, hated how sick and weak he was, never fitting anywhere. And yet, it's exactly when the most important people in his life have found him. Bucky, Peggy, Erskine.

The nostalgic trinket reminds him of the one which he used to carry around. The one that is right here in his pocket, suddenly heavy against his thigh, burning through the fabric.

With a mildly shaky hand, he reaches into his pocket and takes the compass out. It fits in his palm perfectly, like it always has. Now it's harder to open, the water has infringed the material, corroding the hinge. To Steve's great relief, Peggy's picture hasn't been ruined. Not totally, at least, only the edge of it soaked and faded.

His chest seems to tighten, burning with the pressure and lack of oxygen, so similar to the almost-forgotten asthma attacks. This time, however, it's a flash of the crash. The panic washing over him in a wave as cold as the water that swallowed the Valkyrie.

He had been looking at her picture for the whole time, trying desperately for his last thought, last memory before death, to be of her.

The fear creeps back under his skin now and he wants to tell Peggy all about it, needs to get it off his chest, figuratively and literally, and he knows she's the one he wants to let in.

Not now, though. Definitely not now.

With a little shake of his head, Steve tries to get rid of the overcoming teal and darkness drenching his memory. The delicate tap of Peggy's fingertips along his own helps to refocus on the present.

She traces a curved line on the inside of his palm, causing a pleasant shiver to roll down his back, splaying tingling arousal in his body. Blunt edge of a red fingernail grazes the brim of the compass, lingering there for a moment.

And suddenly, quite startling him, Peggy starts laughing. A melodic mirth, which confuses him, as well as fascinates. It's now that he realizes, he has never heard her laugh so carelessly. There were soft chuckles, short giggles, quickly contained, before anyone would notice. Steve did though.

"Oh, my," Peggy leans her head on his shoulder, hints of laughter still resonating in her tone, "Aren't we a pair?"

Then, equally unexpectedly, she stands up and bends down, picking up the locket. She brushes all the dirt from it, before settling down beside Steve. The locket is placed in her palm in the exact manner he's holding the compass.

"I'd like to think, quite a good pair," Steve admits shyly, feeling an immediate rush of heat hitting his face, probably spreading blush on every inch of his skin. He can feel even his ears burning. But Peggy doesn't snort at him, nor rolls her eyes. She seems too absorbed with looking at their younger images, locked within the frames of the nostalgic past.

To his surprise, she replies softly, "A very good one."

With a quick flick, she closes the locket and slips it into her pocket, then slowly, with a little effort, closes the lid of the compass, when Steve makes no move. "It's gotten really cold," he drinks up her words with a quickening heartbeat, eyes focused on her darkening irises, "Let's go."

Steve offers his arm and smiles brightly, when she takes it without a snort, snuggling close to his side. The pace they take is slow, really slow, considering they both are used to taking fast strides. Steve's not about to complain, not when he can walk with her peacefully, not having to watch their backs and duck from the enemy's fire. As they approach the main gate of the cemetery, he feels Peggy's hold on his arm tightening, almost painfully. Her breath catches in her lungs, when their feet cross the line between the holy ground and the mortals' realm. A part of her expected Steve to vanish into thin air, being only a ghost, the deepest desire of her heart.

But he is still there with her, when they walk out onto the solid pavement, standing in the yellowish light cast by the lantern.

She tilts her head to look at him, taking in the lines of his profile, partly veiled by the shadow. "You're really here, darling, aren't you?" Peggy's voice timbres, a foggy puff of her breath tickling Steve's chin.

"I am," he smiles at her softly, a boyish streak lighting up his features.

Peggy can't help the beaming smile that breaks on her own lips, as she looks at him. He'd been just a boy, when she met him. The impingements of war have crafted a man, like they did with all of those boys sent to the lines. Yet, the shy boy is still there, when you look beyond the shiny shield.         
  
Steve's shiver, when she braces one hand on his shoulder and stands on her tiptoes, aligning their lips, sends a jolt of satisfaction through her. His tiny whimper tickles her mouth, a split second before she feels the gentle, warm pressure of his lips on hers. Peggy's eyes flutter shut, when the initial shyness of the kiss turns intense.

They are both a little breathless and stunned, when they pull apart. Peggy, who thought there's nothing left on this Earth to make her blush, feels her cheeks burn. Mirroring Steve's flushed appearance.

"Wow," he rasps out, lips wet and parted, causing Peggy to roll her eyes at him.

"Come on, Captain," she straightens the collar of his coat and resumes her place by his side, arms looped, "Walk me home, will you."

"Uh-huh," Steve nods, trying to regain his composure, but the sweet taste lingering on his lips and smudges of lipstick, which he has no intention of wiping away anytime soon, make it a little harder to focus.

It's when he feels her shiver beside him, the cold evening awakens him from that little haze. "We could take a cab," he suggests, looking at her pale fingers grasping his arm, "It's really cold, maybe even will start snowing and it's quite a long wa-"

"No!" Peggy interrupts him sharply, levelling him with an ardent gaze, "You were gone for over three years. I am not about to shorten any minute I get to spend with you. Is that clear?"

His reply comes as mixture of amusement and astonishment, "Yes ma'am." A response, which apparently is the perfect one, because it evokes another smile on Peggy's face. And it's something, Steve decides instantly, he wants to see more of, to be the reason for it, too.

They set a steady pace, Peggy's heels clicking on the pavement rhythmically, though for a moment Steve fears it's still not enough to muffle the pounding of his heart. Even if she hears it, or feels it, being pressed to his side quite close, Peggy doesn't say anything about it. Instead, she picks a lighter tone, one he barely remembers her using during the war. "Tell me, Steve, what kind of food has Howard fed you with for those few days? Because I know a great, little diner..."

The yellowish lights of the street lamps engulf their dark silhouettes, casting shadows over their faces. To those few people they pass on their way, they are just a couple on a walk. No one would ever think, that for the first time in years, they both feel they're truly going  _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Story based on my own tumblr prompt. The image of Peggy visiting Steve's mom just wouldn't go away and I had to write bout it. Also I refuse to accept any form of them not having a happy ending, so it was obvious Steve's going to be alive in my fics.


End file.
